


Living, loving, and blowing shit up

by kiyala



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: 500themes, Crack, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-19
Updated: 2010-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/pseuds/kiyala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College!AU. Eames shares a flat with Yusuf, who uses micropipettes to add milk to his tea. Eames falls in love with the American exchange student and drags him into this happy mess, with experiments in the kitchen and cats all over the place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living, loving, and blowing shit up

**Author's Note:**

> For nanshie, with apologies that it ended up being less cracky than I'd intended and a lot sappier than expected.

Young and inexperienced, with barely a shilling to his name (but with _plenty_ to other names—that is a different story) and Eames doesn’t quite know what to expect from his first ever flatmate. He’s eighteen, and has spent all of his life in his parents’ manor, bored out of his mind, but extremely comfortable.

He isn’t naïve, and he’s already got some kind of idea of what he wants to do with his life. It may have more to do with swindling and cheating than to do with the university degree he’s enrolled in, but oh well. Mum and Dad don’t need to worry themselves about that.

He isn’t naïve, and that is why he knows that sharing a two bedroom flat with somebody for _this cheap_ means that there is a catch. Possibly several. Possibly life-threatening.

“Ah, you must be Da—”

“Eames,” he corrects, cringing out of habit. “Just Eames, thank you.”

“Eames,” his new acquaintance repeats, his accent Indian with a touch of British. “Welcome. I’m Yusuf.”

Half an hour, and four near-misses where Eames has almost sat on a kitten (and it’s a different one _every time_ , he knows this because he’s observant and Yusuf can laugh it off and pretend what he wants—a black kitten is not suddenly going to grow two inches and turn into a tabby), and Eames is convinced. Only an idiot, someone with very weak self-preservation instincts, or someone incredibly brave, would agree to share a flat with _this_.

“I’m in,” Eames says, not quite sure which category he fits into.

*

“Yusuf,” Eames says, dropping his linguistics reading onto the dining table and looking between his flatmate and the kitchen. “What the bloody hell is _that_?”

“What?” Yusuf asks and then looks up, beaming. “Oh!”

He walks to the kitchen and holds the device up and indicates one of their ever-present teacups. “I’ve gotten so frustrated at the number of times I accidentally pour too much milk into my tea that I’ve come up with a solution! This way, we can make perfect tea all the time.”

Eames stares, casting his memory back to his high school science classes, but it stubbornly won’t move any further back than this morning and the delightfully handsome American exchange student in his art history class. He swallows hard and tries to think about the matter at hand. “That’s a… thingy.”

“Micropipette,” Yusuf says, with all the pride of presenting his first-born (Laddoo, his round ginger cat, yowls jealously). “Second years have access to the chemistry labs, so I stole it. I’m going to use it to add milk to my tea. You can use it too, if you’d like.”

“Thank you, but no,” Eames shakes his head and walks past Yusuf to get the milk out of the fridge and pour it into his tea the way he always does. “I appreciate your… innovation, but I can pour my own milk.”

Two weeks later, his proper British upbringing is the only thing that keeps Eames from forgetting how to add milk to his tea like a normal person.

*

Two months later, and he has the American exchange student—Arthur—shirtless on his bed, leaning eagerly into his kisses and making the most delicious little sounds of _want_ in the back of his throat.

This is it, Eames thinks, pinning Arthur to the mattress and forgetting how to breathe for a moment when he feels the press of an erection, hot and hard against his own. Arthur lets out a breathless moan and thrusts his hips upwards, grinding against Eames, and their heads spin.

“Going—to mess our pants—like this,” Eames gasps out, and he’s tugging Arthur’s cock out of his jeans, pulling his own khakis down far enough that he can wrap his hands around them both and pump. It requires a lot more patience and coordination than he thinks he’s capable of, but then Arthur throws his head back and arches off the bed, and it’s _worth it_.

“ _Eames_!” Arthur moans, and they’re both coming, just like that, all over each other’s chests, and they don’t even have the time to collapse against each other on the bed before there is a loud _BOOM_ , the walls of the flat shake, and the smoke detector starts screaming.

Eames coughs as the smoke begins to the fill the flat and he gets to his feet unsteadily, pulling Arthur with him. They wipe themselves off with Eames’ towel and Arthur manages to throw his unbuttoned shirt on as they run outside, where they can breathe.

The occupants of the entire block are out there on the grass that the more optimistic residents refer to as their _backyard_. With Arthur in tow, it takes Eames approximately three seconds to find who he is looking for.

“ _Yusuf_ ,” he growls, and his flatmate jumps, soot marks all over and a guilty look on his face. “ _What_ have I told you about playing with explosives in the kitchen while I’m having the best shag of my life?”

Yusuf blinks and considers this. “I… I don’t think it’s ever come up.”

“I didn’t even know he was in the flat,” Arthur says, mortified.

“Neither did I,” Eames says over his shoulder. “He’s picked up the bloody stealth of his cats, he has.”

“The cats.” Yusuf’s eyes widen, “Oh god, the cats!”

“Visiting your sister for the weekend,” Eames reminds him with a long-suffering sigh, which is a bit much, coming from him.

This calms Yusuf down. He takes a deep breath and turns to Arthur, who very obviously looks like he’s just gotten laid, without even taking the hickeys scattered across his collarbone and chest into consideration.

“You must be Arthur, then,” he concludes and offers a handshake. “I’m Yusuf.”

*

They move into a new flat after that, and Eames convinces Arthur to move in with them. While it means they get the bigger of the two rooms, it also means that Arthur and Yusuf argue over everything from the seven litter boxes scattered throughout the place, to the fact that their kitchen is developing a closer resemblance to a chemistry laboratory by the day.

Unsurprisingly, Yusuf is embarrassed by the loud sex. Arthur tries, for an entire week, to keep things quiet for this very reason. But Eames knows exactly how to make him scream, and begins to make use of this knowledge on a regular basis.

Even though Arthur gives Yusuf pointed glares every time one of his concoctions bubble over, or stain their saucepans blue, he, like Eames, has also taken to using the micropipette to measure out his milk—only because he likes the specificity, he says—and Yusuf considers this enough of a reason to ignore the rest of his protests.

Whenever Arthur has assessments, he stays overnight in the library, and Yusuf takes the opportunity to run rampant with his experiments.

“Eames, help me find Arthur Junior,” Yusuf says, searching for the latest addition to his collection—because there’s really no other word for it—of cats; small and black with white patches, extremely sullen and unfriendly to everybody but Eames. Yusuf had thought the name to be very fitting.

“Why? Are you going to test your strange drugs on him?” Eames asks and while he’s usually laid back with Yusuf and his experiments, he looks personally offended. “Who the bloody hell do you think you are— _Sherlock Holmes_?”

Yusuf raises an eyebrow. “You’re hiding him, aren’t you?”

“No,” Eames replies.

“Mew,” Arthur Junior says from beneath Eames’ hoodie.

“Damn it, Arty, you were doing _so well_." Eames grimaces. “You can’t have him, Yusuf. Remember what happened to Piddles.”

Even Yusuf winces at the reminder. They’d changed the poor cat’s name after it had drank from a beaker that Yusuf had left uncovered.

“Mew,” Arthur Junior says more insistently this time, telling Eames that even though he does love him, he’s getting sick of being stuffed down the front of his clothes.

“Ow! Little bastard _scratched_ me!” Eames doesn’t sound particularly upset. In fact, he sounds _proud_. He lets the kitten out and scratches behind its ears, grinning when it purrs.

“Oh god. You _love_ him, don’t you?” Yusuf asks accusingly.

“Look at him!” Eames coos, “What’s there not to love?”

“I’m not talking about Arthur Junior, I’m talking about _Arthur_.” Yusuf looks serious now, and that’s almost as terrifying as what he’s saying. “If I’d named that cat anything different, you wouldn’t have cared about it this much even if it worshipped you as a god. But every time Arthur’s in the library, you carry that cat around with you _everywhere_. You even took it for a _walk_ yesterday, Eames. Cats are not dogs. Trust me; I’m a scientist.”

“He _enjoyed_ it,” Eames replies and picks the kitten up, making faces at it. “Didn’t you, Arty?”

Yusuf sighs, knowing Eames well enough to know that he’s avoiding the real topic. He doesn’t push, pretending they’ve both forgotten.

But Eames hasn’t. He thinks about it the entire night and then the afternoon, when Arthur is back from his exam and they’re lying in bed together, he decides to ask:

“Arthur. Am I in love with you?”

Arthur lifts his head off Eames’ chest and looks at him. “Are you?”

“Hm,” Eames thinks, running his fingers through Arthur’s hair. “Yes. I believe I am.”

Arthur grins, and leans across to kiss him on the lips. “Good.”

As it turns out, this is the perfect segue into the best sex they’ve had to date. Eames considers getting Yusuf a thank you card. Or possibly a thank you conical flask. Arthur Junior had tipped his old one over the edge of a table that morning.

Not that Eames feels particularly bad about that. Revenge for Piddles, he decides.

*

Unfortunately for them both, Arthur is only an exchange student, and is only there for the year. At the end of their second semester, he returns to America. On some level, Arthur is looking forward to returning home—Eames can see it in his eyes when he talks about his family, or his friends—but even he’s been blindsided by the fact that he’ll have to leave and Eames will have to stay.

Out of consideration, Yusuf takes his experiments with him and sets up in one of the labs on campus, supervised by his favourite professor: an old man who is almost just as enthusiastic about mixing chemicals and watching them explode.

So, Eames and Arthur are left at home together, with Yusuf’s little army of cats. The newest addition (Eames Junior this time; friendly to everybody, but likes Arthur the best) is curled up on the arm of the couch with them as they watch one of their favourite movies together. Arthur has to board his flight tomorrow night, and his bags are mostly packed. Eames has planned out a classic date: home-cooked dinner, movie, and mind-shattering sex.

They’re steadily getting closer to the third part, kissing through the last ten minutes of the movie, and Arthur turns, straddling Eames and grinding down. They spend the closing credits rocking against each other, hands down each other’s pants, and Eames decides that they need to relocate to the bed.

Mind-shattering doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it.

The next night, Eames and Yusuf both see him off at Heathrow. Eames pulls him into a deep kiss before they part, whispering their repeated promises: phone calls, emails, webcam chats, and everything else they can possibly do to keep in touch.

“Love you,” they murmur against each other’s lips and then Arthur is slipping out of Eames’ arms, walking away, doing all he can to keep himself from looking back.

He does, at the very last minute, catching one last glimpse of Eames, standing there with his arms folded across his chest and a wide smile that means he’s shattered. They wave at each other, and Yusuf nudges Eames with an elbow.

“You know, you’re probably going to get _married_ someday. Dibs on being best man.”

“Sorry, Yusuf,” Eames says, not looking away from the point he’d last seen Arthur. “I’ve already promised Eames Junior that place. The cat, not my cock.”

Yusuf grumbles to himself about unreliable friends and back-stabbing cats. It makes Eames laugh, if quietly, and that means Yusuf’s done his job.

They leave the airport, and Eames lifts his head at the sound of every plane that takes off, thinking, _Goodbye, Arthur, I’ll see you again soon_.

*

Eames is absolute shit at keeping in touch with people. For Arthur, however, he’ll happily bend backwards for even a five minute conversation. They’re both in their final year of university and are extremely busy, but they establish a routine of regular skype conversations. Yusuf complains that Arthur sees Eames more than he does, and _he’s_ the one sharing a flat with him. (Not that Yusuf minds: when Eames is distracted by his conversations with Arthur, Yusuf has free reign of the lab—he means kitchen.)

They’re so busy during their finals that their conversations are limited to no more than ten minutes, and it’s never enough, but it’s better than nothing. Arthur is studying neurology, and he’s determined to make it into the Masters program at his university, but whenever he asks Eames about his plans beyond graduating, the answers he receives are always vague and don’t tell him anything.

It’s worrying, but not half as worrying as the email he wakes up to, one day before Eames’ final exam, saying he’s not going to be around for a while. He doesn’t specify how long—he never specifies—and it drives Arthur mad. A day? A week? Longer? He’s so comfortable with their routine that the very notion of breaking it for a single day is jarring. He doesn’t know how he’ll deal with anything longer.

He sends an email to Eames, not saying any of this, but asking when he _will_ be back. He receives no reply that day, or the next. He tries calling the flat, and then emails Yusuf, but still, nothing.

He tries to push it out of his mind, but finds that he can’t. His own exams are already over, so he has nothing to divert his attention for long enough to let him ignore the feeling of restlessness he gets, almost like withdrawal.

It’s been four days without any word from Eames, and Arthur finds that reading is the only thing that keeps him from driving himself utterly insane. He’s already gone through more books than he can count—he’s probably already made up for all the reading he couldn’t do while he had classes, he thinks—and simply sits in his favourite corner of the cafe, book in hand, immersed in another world.

He doesn’t bother to look up when he hears somebody approach his table.

"Is this seat free?" they ask, and Arthur simply shrugs his assent as his mind belatedly processes the voice, quiet and familiar— _wait_.

He knows that voice. That accent. He’s heard it every single day for the past year, except for the past four days.

“ _Eames_!” He gets up, book already lying forgotten on the table, and throws his arms around the other man.

Eames’ arms are warm and solid around him, his smell just as Arthur remembers, surrounding him and making him dizzy. His lips are plush as always, his tongue hot and wet and tasting better than Arthur remembers.

They’re making a scene in the coffeehouse. There aren’t many people Arthur would do this for. Eames knows it, and takes full advantage of it, sitting down and pulling Arthur down against him.

“How the hell did you find me?”

“Hopped on a plane to America and asked where to find the most handsome man in the country. Besides myself, of course.”

“Funny.”

“You’ve mentioned this café a few times. It took me a couple of minutes with a map, and a good hunch I’d find you here,” Eames says more seriously.

“But you’re _here_. In America. You would have had to book flights. Plan things.”

“Have you _any_ idea of how difficult it is to keep a secret from you, Arthur?” Eames laughs quietly. “I’m here for the next two years. Doing my Masters here. Surprise. And congratulations, by the way. I see you’ve made it into your Masters program too.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow, but he looks amused. “You found my apartment.”

“I didn’t find you there,” Eames grins. “But I saw the letter of acceptance on your table.”

“You had to break in to my apartment to figure out I wasn’t there?”

“No, of course not. But I needed somewhere to keep my bags before I came to find you, didn’t I?” Eames reaches into his pocket and pulls out an envelope. “Yusuf sent this, by the way. Told me not to open it.”

“And did you?”

Eames smiles. “Please.”

The small envelope is sealed shut and Arthur recognises Yusuf’s scrawl… but he’s also seen Eames forge handwriting before. He opens it to find a polaroid of two cats—Arthur Junior and Eames Junior, he recognises them even though they’ve both grown—asleep curled up beside each other. He turns it over to find a message on the back:

 _See, I can’t even escape the (not so) public displays of affection when you’re both halfway across the bloody world._

 _The two of you better get married; I’ve already bet £50 on it. And you’d probably be happy together anyway. I’ll even organise the wedding for you. Cat-free. I’ll be the best man._

 _If you were anyone else, I’d warn against letting Eames get away with too much. But you’re the one who never let me make tea in my round-bottom flasks, so…_

 _Yusuf._

“Eames,” Arthur says conversationally, “You remember our plans to visit Vegas whenever you came around this side of the Atlantic?”

Eames grins, and takes a chain out from beneath his shirt, showing off the silver ring hanging from it. “Of course I do.”

“Well,” Arthur says, extremely conscious of the weight of an identical ring on his own chain. “…I have a feeling Yusuf won’t be pleased.”

“Oh, Yusuf won’t _really_ mind. He has the cats and his explosives. I have you. Everyone’s happy.”

Arthur wants to laugh at Eames putting it all so simply, but he thinks about it, and realises it’s _true_.

“I guess we’re booking the next flight to Vegas, then.”

“Oh, not yet,” Eames shakes his head. “Suggesting a spontaneous idea and sending you a ring in the mail hardly counts. I’m going to propose properly, Arthur, in a romantic, over-the-top manner that will embarrass us both. That’s a promise.”

Arthur sighs and leans in to press his lips to Eames’. “Lucky me.”

“Lucky _me_ ,” Eames insists.

They both mean it.


End file.
